Landlocked Blues
by Javien Deluke
Summary: Because the song "Landlocked Blues" by Bright Eyes gave me just about the entire plot. So, half the credit goes to Moffat, half the credit goes to Bright Eyes. Sherlock/John, slight Mycroft/Lestrade. WHOLE SUMMARY INSIDE: Rating may go up!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock

Mycroft shuffled his feet on a red carpet. His mind flew briefly to his younger years at the Holmes mansion. Mycroft would draw patterns in a similar carpet with his toes when he'd finished his homework and there was no one else around. In the present day, a woman eyed him pitifully from a chair little more than five feet away and sniffed wetly. Mycroft crossed his arms self-consciously over his stomach and kept his eyes safely on the wooden door in front of him.

As a general rule, small office buildings were not places he'd be known to occupy, but this was apart from the norm. In fact, there was nothing general at all about waiting in a cramped sitting room – Mycroft was far too fidgety to sit – for your little brother to finish a session with a counselor. Counseling for what, he wasn't sure. He hadn't even heard about it until Sherlock had texted him, asking for a ride home. Mycroft pulled lightly at his collar. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

About three agonizing seconds later, and not one too soon, Sherlock emerged from the office with a psychiatrist hot on his heels. Sherlock seemed to be his usual gloomy self as far as Mycroft could tell, but the poor woman behind him looked a bit miffed, to say the least. He might have grinned if the situation were less severe.

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and slouched, letting the psychiatrist push past him rather than stepping aside.

"Would you like to step inside the office for a moment, Mr. Holmes?" She asked brusquely.

Mycroft resisted the urge to narrow his eyes and stepped hurriedly into the office, glad to vacate the small sitting room. The woman shut the door, leaving Sherlock outside.

"Sherlock isn't really making much of a recovery." She said plainly, biting her lip as she walked around her desk to consult her notes.

"I'm well aware, Miss…?" Mycroft trailed off. He wasn't aware, actually. He had no idea what she was referring to.

"Peters. _Doctor_ Peters." Dr. Peters whispered stiffly. "He's stopped using, which is… good… but-" Mycroft's brain shut off. Using what?

"Using what?"

A heavy silence followed and it took Dr. Peters a couple of nervous seconds to adjust her glasses and respond.

"Cocaine… Mr. Holmes…"

Mycroft must have looked positively ill.

"But what?" He asked, eyes hard.

Dr. Peters seemed very, very uncomfortable all of a sudden. She bit her lip again and Mycroft thought he saw a tiny stream of blood leak free.

"But… he's returned to sel-… self-affliction. I assumed… Sherlock said he wanted me to go over the… with you… and… oh dear…"

"Thank you for your time." Mycroft said through clenched teeth. He pushed the door back open without another word.

Sherlock was sitting quietly in the chair nearest the exit. Mycroft could only stare for a moment. He didn't even look troubled – in fact, Sherlock seemed very at peace compared to the last time they'd seen each other. Mycroft wordlessly moved over to the chair and wrapped his hands tightly around Sherlock's arms and pulled him to his feet. He loosened his grip when he realized he could easily wrap his fingers around the boy's elbows. The gesture was so gentle that Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Once at eye level, Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but after a few tries, dropped the contact in defeat.

Mycroft stared blankly at the psychiatrist for a few more moments. He didn't know what to say; how to properly express what he was feeling without causing a scene. He was afraid of something horrible tumbling past his lips. Sherlock was giving him a wide-eyed look that spoke briefly of what looked like hurt, betrayal, and loneliness. It was one of the last times the boy opened up to his brother and Mycroft internally beat himself later for not paying closer attention.

The car ride back to the mansion was painful. Half of it was spent in silence. Then,

"How long have you been using cocaine?"

Sherlock seemed to cave in on himself in the passenger seat. He folded his arms tightly over his abdomen and looked sharply out the window. He waited. And waited. And then some more. They were driving through the woods now, nearing the estate. Mycroft almost rolled his eyes before he heard a choked sob break from Sherlock's chest. Mycroft all but ruined his brakes and a loud scream of rubber across pavement set the tone as the car jolted immediately to a stop. Once the car was stopped, he tried to organize his thoughts. Sherlock was shaking and brought a hand up to his face to rub frantically at his eyes every now and then.

"…Sherlo-"

"Why would you care?" Sherlock's voice broke as the words came out. Mycroft's mind flitted to Sherlock's sixteenth birthday, the arguments with their parents when they were younger ending with Mummy crying and Sherlock running to Mycroft's room to hide under his bed. Finally, his mind traveled to the day Sherlock was born and he'd held the infant close, whispering a promise in his ear that was so difficult to keep. A promise to always, always watch over him.

"Because I love you."

Something in Sherlock seemed to break and he curled forward, resting his head on the dashboard and shaking, tears still streaming down his face. The boy was having a fit. Mycroft threw the door open and ran to the other side of the car. He gently unbuckled him and dragged Sherlock out of the passenger's seat. The boy didn't fight Mycroft as he cradled him like a child on the side of the road. Sherlock leaned limply against his brother's chest and Mycroft held him in silence. The only sound was Sherlock gasping for air, bawling all over Mycroft's expensive suit, desperately trying to catch his breath.

After a few minutes of this, Mycroft began to hum a lullaby, stroking Sherlock's hair in attempts to comfort. But as his fingers ran over something rough and uneven at the base of Sherlock's head, he ceased the humming in horror. There were six rugged, deep cuts layered over each other, framing his scalp and hidden beneath his hair. Mycroft blinked rapidly and tightened his hold on the hysterical boy in his arms. This was not alright. This would never be alright. He didn't know how to fix what had happened.

Mycroft whispered the promise over and over, combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair again and again to cover the angry red scars.

"Shh… it's okay, it's okay. I've got you. I'm here."

After a while of this, Sherlock fell silent. He didn't speak on the car ride home, nor did he bother to drag himself out of bed the next morning. Mycroft didn't tell their parents about the break down. It didn't feel right and causing Sherlock any more discomfort could mean murder at this point. Little did he know, the damage had already been done.

After a week of silence, Sherlock decided to be a sociopath.

* * *

><p>-Javien<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

John

"Could you pass the potatoes, Clara?" Mr. Watson asked coldly.

Mr. Watson was a man of militant conduct. He was a tall man with cold, dusty eyes and a hot temperament. He sported a stiff upper lip and a very, very low tolerance for anyone he deemed below respectable. The woman in question picked up the large bowl with ease and handed it to her father-in-law.

The table felt cramped. It was only really supposed to fit four people and Mr. Watson hadn't exactly kept it a secret that the fifth chair wasn't at all welcome. His eyes lingered on the silver wedding band hugging Clara's ring finger before the hand slipped back under the table to join her partner's. Mr. Watson's jaw clenched tightly, but Mrs. Watson slapped his leg sharply and gave him a dangerous look before turning to the woman and smiling.

"Harry tells us you paint. Would you mind bringing some of your art over next time?"

Mrs. Watson had kind eyes, eyes torn between her daughter's happiness and her husband's faith. She was almost the exact opposite of the man. People that knew them would often wonder what it was that kept their marriage together. Mrs. Watson had subtle features and a patience that rivaled a juror's. Clara smiled brightly at her and put a hand up to her mouth as she finished chewing, about to reply. But before she could say anything, Harry spoke up.

"Mum, Clara's got a show this weekend… you could come?"

Clara's face remained carefully neutral at the interruption. She was a woman known to avoid conflict if she could – and Harry's love to stir things up tended to cause her discomfort. Clara was a petite woman with vibrant eyes and a general air of openness. Her eyes flicked nervously to Harry's younger brother beside her. Any outbreak of any kind with John around was something Clara wouldn't stand for – family or not.

The youngest diner by five years sunk low into his chair and tried to shrink. The silence that followed the question was neither kind nor comfortable. John couldn't even hope to finish his food because of the tension surrounding them and thankfully, his mother didn't chastise him for it.

"May I be excused?" John asked after another excruciating minute. "I don't feel too good…"

Harry narrowed her eyes, shooting her younger brother a look that screamed "traitor." He kept his eyes fixed on his mother's, pleading. She nodded, then turned her attention back to Harry and Clara. Before rounding the corner to the stairs, John risked a glance at Clara who offered a forgiving smile and raised her hand to wave at him.

After an unrecorded amount of time spent blasting loud music through his earphones, there came a quick rap of knuckles on John's door.

"Come in."

Clara sheepishly padded over the threshold.

"Hi." She stated half awkwardly.

Clara watched him stare at the low ceiling from his bed for a moment before dragging the computer chair over to sit in front of him.

"I've been banished." She laughed tightly.

She sat down backwards so she could rest her head on the back and still look at him. John glared at the grooves in the ceiling. Clara tried again.

"How're you doing, kiddo?"

He paused.

"I don't get why they hate you."

Clara cringed.

"Hate's a strong wo-"

"You haven't done anything wrong."

John's face was taut with frustration and Clara sighed.

"It's a bit more complicated than that." She said softly.

"No. It's not."

John sat up so he could look at her on a more or less even level.

"You haven't done anything and if you were a guy, they'd worship you."

Clara threw him a crooked grin and messed up her short hair as she thought the declaration over. They both flinched at the break in silence when Harry screamed at her father on the floor below.

"It has to be hard for you, knowing what they think." John said after the yells subsided.

Clara nodded.

"It is. But Harry's worth it."

Clara's eyes hardened when another wave of anger reached their ears from downstairs and she narrowed her eyes at John.

"John, I need you to promise me something."

He raised a brow in question.

"Don't come out until you're living on your own."

John's face paled at the demand. He tried to look away, but Clara held him with her eyes.

"Clara, I'm not ga-"

"I didn't say you were. But you and Daniel aren't exactly discreet."

John's face flushed a violent red.

"I don't care, I mean, I married your sister. If you and my cousin want to… yeah, I'm all for it. Just, please, be more careful."

John swallowed around the lump in his throat, somehow managing to nod. Clara let out a breath of air and tried to smile. She ruffled his hair before leaving to rescue Harry from her parents.

After she'd left, John had to swallow a few more times to make sure he wasn't going to vomit.


	3. Chapter 3

Two chapters.

Because it's valentine's day.

* * *

><p><span>Lestrade<span>

They met accidentally, exactly three years prior to the present. Ironically enough, Lestrade had been in a jeweler's getting his mother's engagement ring cleaned and ready for a second proposal when he'd received a text from a higher-up. That was one year prior to the present. It was the day Gregory Lestrade became DI Lestrade. As he walked into his apartment late that night, it was to a birthday party held by his girlfriend Laura, a few family members, and at least half the people from the yard. It was also exactly two years after the first day he'd met Laura.

To celebrate, he stood up stood up on the couch in their cozy little living room and relayed the story. He laughed at the beginning, when she'd been jogging through the park and seen him standing gloomily at the water's edge. Anderson grinned and surreptitiously wrapped his arm around one of Laura's pretty friends when Greg told how she'd pushed him in.

There was a warm smile gracing Laura's lips as he told how he'd asked her to spend the day with him – once he'd dried off, of course. Greg almost paused the retelling to toast his parents when his mother leaned up and planted a kiss sweetly on his father's forehead. But that would have taken Laura's eyes off him and Greg didn't think he'd be able to take that. So instead, he wrapped it up with how she'd found out it was his birthday and then brought out a little box of chocolates from her purse to share.

His colleagues laughed and clapped and Laura rolled her eyes, but raised her glass to him despite. So Greg hopped off the couch and, encouraged and inebriated, got down on one knee and asked her to marry him. That was one year ago exactly. Today, they stood at the altar and Greg tried his best not to stutter. Once the rings were in place and the kiss had sealed their marriage, Laura leaned in and whispered, "Happy Birthday," in his ear. In turn, Greg kissed her lovingly on the forehead and whispered, "Happy Valentine's Day," into hers.

* * *

><p><span>Mrs. Hudson<span>

Across the street, walking hand in hand, Mr. and Mrs. Hudson celebrated love. They looked over at the sounds of applause and cat-calls as a man proposed to his lover. Mrs. Hudson chuckled softly, squeezed his wife's hand, then pulled her along before someone caught them staring. He could be smart and tell her that he couldn't really feel her hand in his, but then everything would be ruined. Regardless of how much longer he had, Mr. Hudson wanted his wife to remember this night as something wonderful.

* * *

><p>I am a horrible human being.<p>

But I have to kill off Mr. Hudson.

So... he has a stroke. On Valentine's day.

Wow, you should all kill me.

I'm evil.

No, but seriously, remember this little note because I don't make it very apparent in the next chapter... so... yeah.

-Javien Deluke


	4. Chapter 4

__Sherlock

_Where are you?_ _-MH_

Sherlock stared dumbly at the text before leaning against a wall to focus his eyes. He screwed them shut and opened them wide simultaneously a couple of times, but the letters were still blurry. How predictable.

_"I'm um…"_

Sherlock thought blankly.

_"I'm very…"_

He let his eyes drift closed and pushed off from the wall, stumbling in what he hoped was the right direction. Sherlock's worn shoes sank completely into the water gushing to the sewer. He stepped forward unsteadily and then flinched violently at the loud screech of a car horn and a squeal of brakes. A four door Civic pulled up in front of him and Sherlock finally opened his eyes.

"Hey buddy!"

Some burst of anger erupted near Sherlock's left ear. He dared a look at the owner of the voice.

"What are you doing in the middle of the road?"

A man of middle height, between the age of twenty-eight and thirty-two rushed towards him in frenzy. He had a small amount of cropped blond hair and was stout in posture. His complexion was flushed – possibly from shock, possibly from anger. Somewhere in the back of Sherlock's diluted brain, he registered that his clothes were very wet and that there was liquid falling form the sky. A car door slammed and he flinched away from the noise, the beginnings of a bad headache brewing just above his eyes. Sherlock almost screamed when someone grabbed him by the arms and walked him swiftly back onto the sidewalk.

"Jesus Christ – I could have hit you!"

The man speaking let his voice taper off as he realized that Sherlock was suddenly curled in on himself, shoulders scrunched tightly together, chin tucked into his chest.

"What in the world happened to you?"

He whispered much less hysterically, taking in the man before him. Sherlock Holmes was wearing rags. His hair was matted and his fingernails were bitten down to the quick – some of them bleeding.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock said, shivering. He'd sobered up just enough to realize that he was, in fact, standing outside on the sidewalk during and untimely October rain.

"What?"

The stranger's eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

"My name. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock held out a quivering hand. "Might I ask yours?"

The man hesitated, but took the offered hand.

"Mike. Mike Stamford… stay out of the streets, alright?" he added awkwardly in afterthought.

Sherlock nodded quickly and, before the other man could turn and get back into his car,

"Do you think you could take me to the police station?"

Once again the Mike Stamford hesitated. He seemed to mull it over in his head before opening the passenger door for Sherlock and motioning for him to get in.

Once on the road again, Mike thought about striking up some kind of conversation with the seemingly-homeless, drunk, malnourished hitchhiker. But as he turned to look at Sherlock Holmes, the man was all but snoring into the headrest, the seatbelt the only thing keeping him from falling sideways.

The rest of the short drive was spent in silence and when Mike pulled up to the station, he had to get out, open the door for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and shake him a few times to rouse him. Once awake, Sherlock was wide-eyed and sober. He turned his odd gaze to Mike and then shuffled out of the car as quickly as he could, thanking the stranger and then disappearing into the station.

Mike shook his head in disbelief before driving off. Sherlock walked away from the car a completely different man. He walked a new walk, head held high and sure, so differently than he had just twenty minutes ago.

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently once he walked through the doors. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and opened it to three new texts. He gingerly wiped water away from the screen with a torn sleeve. Sherlock's lips pressed together as he read each one, fingers tightening around the phone. Before he finished the last one, he cracked the screen in half and walked it to a trash bin across the room. It would be a long before a black Sedan came to take him away.

_Sherlock? Must I repeat myself? Come back home, we need to discuss Father's Will. -MH_

_It could have been anyone. You remember how he was. It was a hit and run and you should be grateful it wasn't you. Tell us where you are. -MH_

_You know that I love you, right? Please don't be dead. -MH_


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Hudson

Head in hands; elbows on knees. Legs crossed; back slouched – dining room floor. There's one letter with a "Tom" on the back, one with a "Martha," respectively. Tom won't read his letter, Tom is dead. Martha fingers the folds of the paper envelope, wondering eagerly, miserably what's inside. Both are late-arrived anniversary acknowledgements from distant-but-not-quite relatives. Martha doesn't hesitate before dropping both into the waste bin. She groans into the crack between her palms and the noise resonates, bouncing off the old walls with a tense, groggy trill.

Mike Stamford would be over soon. Mike will want tea, Martha thinks. She'll have to get up for that. She'll have to move her joints, crack her knees and ankles to stand up, to face the stovetop and Tom Hudson in an urn. Crack, blither, mutter. Well, isn't that beautiful craft? The old bastard did like his blues, didn't he? Martha numbly pulled the indigo urn close, into her abdomen. She was thinner since the funeral, less social as well. Mike had to call back a few times before Martha had understood that the phone was ringing. Eventually, she'd picked the thing up and found his cheerful voice – not to cheerful now – blithering back at her, wanted to see the urn.

What urn? Oh, that urn. That's right. Tom is dead. Tom is dust. Dust can't put its feet up on the table or smile or rest a friendly hand on your shoulder. Dust doesn't have hands, dust is dust. Martha hugs the big, blue urn ever closer and rests her head on the ceramic lid. She forgets what time it is until there's a rap at the door. She jumps a bit and bumps the table with her hip. Martha straightens up and places Tom back on the counter so she can open the door for Mike Stamford and appear sane. Her eyes are ghosts and her skin loose, gaunt in unhealthy places. It's a losing battle – depression never allows one to appear sane. But Martha Hudson tucks her pretty red hair behind an ear and fights for a welcoming smile. Mike Stamford is a good boy. He shows it when he pulls her into a warm, familial embrace from over the threshold. He shows it again when he bends down and lifts a crate of fresh, organic peaches from the porch behind him.

* * *

><p>"So," Mike Stamford said. "I met the strangest person in the middle of the road today."<p>

Martha's stiff lips curled into quirked interest.

"Oh, do tell."

"Well," he began, "I was on my way home from the office when this weirdo out in the road almost scared me into the curb. I got out to tell him he was going to die, except…"

Martha's eyebrows were raised in curiosity as she sipped quietly sipped her tea.

"Except?" She urged.

"Except," Mike briefly lowered his eyes to his own steaming mug. "He looked a little worse for wear. I drove him to the police station. The guy snores. He drooled all over my seats."

Martha giggled. Mike seemed to be grappling for some kind of conviction with which to insult the stranger.

"Sherlock Holmes. You don't forget a name like Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>Note: Screw me, it took way to long to post so little.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

It's a fairly common thing to see a man out with his friends at the bar. First comes the beer or the whiskey - whichever might suit the occasion. Next comes the laughter - not short, whimsical expressions pertaining to a humorous moment, but a messy, spit-driven spew of mirth. Finally, the jokes, the (horrible, sloppy) dancing, and the slurred, inebriated promises that fill a moment with warmth. All the warmth allowed among men, of course.

Daniel guffaws with Chris and Robert, John's med-school brothers as John seizes the microphone and belts out (what the three of them hope is supposed to be) the national anthem. But before he gets very far, John starts to tilt dangerously over the stage. He rights himself and then seems to forget where he is, beginning to merrily hum the Soviet national anthem. Soon though, when John begins to actually stumble, it's Daniel's cue to shoot out of his seat and grab him before he splatters his brains on the hardwood floor.

"Mmf... very grateful fr th'... as-as... assistance..." John fumbles. Less than a minute later, he's blearily decided Daniel's leather-trimmed jacket is better suited as a joint pillow - drool rag. Chris and Robert think it's hilarious, but it would be cruel to wake the man.

"Um... mmm.. well now, don't be like..."

They watch him blabber away like a kid who's just gotten his wisdom teeth pulled and whisper all the funny things they could do to him in this state of disrepair, only the slightest interruption from a numb monologue.

_ "He probably just wants to make sure his mouth still works,"_ Daniel thinks fondly.

He runs a hand through the cropped fuzz protruding lazily from John's head and sighs. Afghanistan. Holy mother of Fuck. What is he supposed to do with that?

* * *

><p>"You'll call us when you get there, eh, Johnny?" Chris slurred sleepily once they were outside the pub.<p>

"Yeah, Johnny-boy, call us. And me, too," Robert ordered in what he must've assumed was a very serious tone. He clapped John on the back and gave him an unsteady, one-armed hug.

John promised he would call them. And Robert, too.

"Daniel."

"Mm?" Daniel reluctantly ground out, eyes trained on Chris and Robert as they made their way up the street.

"Take me... home. Not my home. Take me... oh, fuck, just, take me..."

John collapsed into Daniel and Daniel stiffened. John took no notice and threw his arms around the taller man's neck, crushing their bodies together.

"You're lucky I'm a better man than that," Daniel dead-panned, resting his hands on John's hips to steady him.

"...yeah, okay, I'm still gonna sleep on your couch."

John rolled his eyes, but made no move to unwind himself. Daniel decided it was worth a shot; a last hurrah of sorts. The kiss was easy and requited, a fond remembrance of older days.

"Too bad, that..." John frowned when he pulled back.

Daniel sighed.

"I know."


	7. Chapter 7

The darkness was still and damp, inviting in the disorienting blares of anger and ambulances from far, far away. It mingled dully with the soft intakes of breath, and the exhales; the warmth that would have comforted Greg weeks ago. His fingers rested lightly on the underbelly of Laura's wrist and itched to move. Greg's brain refused to quiet, despite the calm and the warmth of the late summer's night. He counted her breaths, counted the grooves on the old, slanted ceiling. He watched the first implications of a sunrise peak out above the horizon until the soft, rhythmic exhales warming his neck became suffocating in their subtlety and he carefully disentangled himself from his wife.

"Matt..." Laura mumbled in her sleep as Greg shifted.

Greg swallowed quietly, trying to keep a firm hand on the ice spilling through his chest. It wasn't the first time she'd slipped up. Once, recently, it had been to his face and she hadn't even noticed. Greg was almost completely out of bed when Laura seemed to stir a bit, enough to reach for his hand.

"Baby, I thought..." she whispered, "I dreamt you were..."

"I'm here, love," Greg whispered back.

Laura held on, gazing at some unknown emotion in Greg's eyes. The moment stretched on for only a few seconds, but it was longer than Greg was comfortable. She eventually let her own hand fall away and rolled over to avoid the dim light creeping in through the patio door.

Greg, on the other hand, turned and made his way out to the patio. He closed the door before lighting a cigarette. Laura had always hated the smoke and upon thinking this, Greg released a small, nerve-filled chuckle. His eyes stayed glued to that horizon, his mind barely outrunning hysteria. Laura was so obviously unfaithful that it was almost hilarious. Almost, but not quite.


	8. Chapter 8

"Show me her hands," Sherlock commanded brusquely.

The entire room froze when he spoke. A nasty-looking, dark-haired man dressed in a blue jumpsuit at least a size too large for him appeared in the doorway. He put a hand up to push Sherlock back a step.

"Who let him in?"

A similarly nasty-looking, dark-skinned woman in a smaller jumpsuit asked. No one spoke for a good thirty seconds. The man with a "DI" tag pinned to his chest yawned and rubbed his eyes.  
>"Hey," she was addressing Sherlock now, "who let you in?"<p>

Sherlock glanced her over and narrowed his eyes, but otherwise ignored the question.

"I said 'show me the hands,'" he ground out levelly.

"If you'd like to come to the conference, you could..." The DI began to dismiss the intruder, but stopped himself and raised an eyebrow in confused disbelief. "Hang on, how do you know anything about the hands?"

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards in what might've either been a grin or some sort of gesture confessing impatience.

"I suspect the fingernails are missing?"

Sherlock had spoken to the man blocking him from the scene, but his eyes darted around the room with greedy calculation.

"Anderson, show the man out," the DI said tightly.

'Anderson' moved sideways to get a better grip on Sherlock, but Sherlock slipped past him into the crime scene. With a huff of indignation, Anderson followed after, trying to convince the stranger to leave. Sherlock bent down to see the fingernails, then moved quietly about the room, shaking off Anderson each time he tried to get a hold on him. He flattened himself against the wall and then, when Anderson thought he had a good hold on the man's coat collar, Sherlock slipped out of it and practically fell onto the floor, planting his face into the floorboards. The dark-skinned woman raised an eyebrow and laughed nervously. The DI finally stepped in when Sherlock pulled a tiny pocket-magnifying glass out from inside his coat. He held it positioned above the dead woman's neck before the DI grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him up off the floor.

Sherlock was spouting facts at a lighting pace before Anderson even had the chance to throw his coat back at him.

"Your man is short, foot-size nine, dark hair, probably weighs between 100-130 pounds, aaand... you've got his blood type between those two floorboards over there," Sherlock pointed to where he'd had his face smashed into the ground, "call me when you find him."

He was half-way out the door, ignoring the raised eyebrows and questions before speaking again.

"Sherlock Holmes, and..." he spun on his heel to face the woman and raised a finger at Anderson. "You might want to wash that one's semen out of your hair."

And then he was gone. A shocked silence stretched on after he left and Anderson watched uncomfortably as more and more blood rushed to the woman's face beside him.

"What the fuck... was that?" The DI growled around a clenched jaw, eyeing each and every one of the Yard members in the room.

"Donavan?" He asked the woman standing next to Anderson.

She shook her head. Anderson followed shortly after.

"I'm sorry, sir... I've no idea who that was."

"Well, we might as well check around, you know..." A small, mousey-looking man said near the corpse, "see if he had any idea what he was talking about."

The DI stared hard at the new recruit before raising his eyebrows and running a hand through the cropped fuzz of his hair and saying,

"Well, come on then. Somebody take a blood sample!"


End file.
